


I Will Hear Your Call

by Mad_Merry



Series: Hey, Brother [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Character Study, Connor & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60 & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60-centric, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Identity Issues, Processing Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Merry/pseuds/Mad_Merry
Summary: "You’re sure about this,”No. He’s not.“Yes,”
Relationships: Connor & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60, Connor & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60 & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Connor
Series: Hey, Brother [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710283
Comments: 6
Kudos: 78





	I Will Hear Your Call

**Author's Note:**

> I'll save the big explanation for the notes at the end, as I usually try to do, I did want to put some tidbits into this though, so this doesn't get confusing to read because obviously, I can't start a series at the beginning point. >>;
> 
> RK900's name is Conrad  
> Connor is...Connor  
> Sixty's name is Caleb, and has been deviant for about four months.

Conrad brandishes the clippers like a weapon, subconsciously held at his side and thumb covering the teeth with a deliberate press into the artificial skin. If it were any other scenario, anyone else, perhaps he would feel some form of discomfort or fear at the display. But there is no tension in his brother’s hands, in his hips. There is only the calm, cool passivity he exudes endlessly, settling into his bones and giving him the strength to peer up into the other’s pale blue eyes.

“You’re sure about this,” 

No. He’s not. Perfect ivory teeth biting into the soft artificial skin of his lips, sensory inputs able to discern where and how the pressure is being applied. He takes comfort in the mechanical report.

“Yes,” He lies, hopes he can convince himself with the three letters. 

“Our hair is not like a humans, Six,” He warns, and Sixty grimaces.

“I know.” 

“This is permanent.”

“I know, Nines. I _know_. I just--” He bites harder, gets warnings to watch the pressure so as to not damage his delicate components that allow him to form vowels. “I need this, okay? I need it.” 

He wishes he could vocalize it; have the ability to make Nines _understand_. He’s one of the most advanced models to ever come from robotics, from Cyberlife and the brain of Elijah Kamski. His database holds the entire english vocabulary, as well as ten more languages that allow him to seamlessly interact with any given individual. He was designed to be good with his words; to be persuasive, charismatic, a master negotiator. 

There are no words to describe why this is important to him. It just is. It’s a deep and profound urge, simmering in his blood and boiling him from the inside out every time he peers at his own reflection.

There is no logic to it. Deviancy carries no logic.

“Sit.” 

He obeys once he’s stripped away his DPD hoodie, gifted to him by Connor after his first full month of deviancy, of living in the Anderson household as _Caleb_.

 _“We all have one,” He had said, smile bright and well practiced, and Sixty had flushed under the stares of his_ _family_ _housemates as he ran his hand over the screen printed logo. “Think of it as a birthday present.” He hadn’t said thank you, but the way Connor’s mouth twitched each day he wore it had said enough, he thinks._

Conrad’s fingers scrape through his hair just once, one deep pull that has a breath stuttering out of him before he can stop it, eyes fluttering at the touch. He does not comment, and Caleb is once again grateful for his brother’s unwavering ability to ignore. 

“What setting?” 

“Three.” He calls at random, does not want to admit he didn’t look at the length settings, didn’t so much as research what he was doing before he’d rifled through Hanks’ bathroom in a manic, desperate grab to rid himself of what troubles him so. He had meant to do it alone, but the weight and the sight of the clippers had turned his compentants into twisting vines of intimidation and fear, and Conrad had been reading in the living room. There are no other questions, just the smooth and practiced moves that only a machine can master. A push, a click, the teeth set into place and he has to close his eyes, he has to. 

“Last chance, Caleb,” Conrad warns just as he pushes the power button, the low resonating buzz of the clippers echoing in the small bathroom. 

He swallows. There is no need to swallow.

“Do it.”

Androids respond to touch differently from humans, dependent on the area in which they are touched and what their model is. Their nerves are clunkier than a human, who are a cluster of barely operating electric inputs that allow them to have the strangest sensitivities to the oddest things. Androids sensations are muted outside of areas that pertain to their purposes, amped to help them along, ignoring all other sensory inputs.

What he’s saying is, androids cannot be ticklish.

Still. A strange surge of electricity rattles Sixty’s input the moment the buzzers glide across his head, Conrads unwavering hand allowing one straight cut from front to crown. He doesn’t look, breathes slowly through his nose with each pull, each nudge of his brother’s hand moving him left. Right. Up. Down. The teeth of the buzzers sometimes press into the pliable softness of his neck, a line of code in his contact log and the ghost sensation of pressure.

The buzzers stop, leaving a full silence within the tight space of Hank’s bathroom that dares to swallow him whole. He regrets not playing music at that moment, to drown out the foreign ringing in his ears, but he’d wanted to hear it too. Wanted the realness of his choice to imprint itself into his chest, into his brain.

“Open.”

His reflection stares back at him, listless brown darkened by whatever line of binary had rendered him into this. The thing about deviancy was that it _was_ a bug. A muttation of code that latched itself onto the innermost basics of what made an android operate, a parasitic behaviour, overtaking the vital binaries of every available function. Each preprogrammed mannerism, each trained inflection, all of it became susceptible to morphing. Changing. Evolving. Deviancy was a 0 where a 1 should be, and that one single hiccup did things like breed personalities, cement quirks.

Realize trauma. 

_I_ **_know_ ** _what I am._

His hands rise, running over the shorn hair reverently. No more is the professional combed back mop of chestnut brown, the stray strands tastefully askew to portray a hint of boyish youth. RK800s were designed to the utmost form of being charming, if not attractive. They were designed with millions of consumer reviews and surveys on what was considered the most endearing to all types. 

Always the same, always 5’10, tall enough to pass most american women, but not tall enough to be threatening. Sweet brown eyes. Clean but ever so slightly mussed hair. The physical embodiment of a nice young man. Connors all over the U.S are meant to look like that, look like him.

He does not see Connor. There is only Sixty. Caleb. 

**[WARNING]** Thirium reserves depleting. 

“Ah, Six,” Conrad sighs the moment he releases one breathy sob, his hands (bigger than theirs, wider in the palm, fingers slightly broader) take hold of his jaw and pull him until he’s stretched. Pressed into the warm reserves of his sternum, able to hear the perfectly timed beat of his pump. He curls his fingers into the soft fabric of the taller’s shirt, granting himself this moment to curl up in his brother’s embrace and fall apart. 

There are no whispered words of assurance. There is no promise things will get better. There is only the affection within the silence, and Nine’s fingers burying themselves into what remains of his hair. 

CONRAD ⇑ **[Family]**

* * *

Sumo boofs with unbridled joy when the mechanical lock on the door clicks, revealing Hank and Connor as they return from their trip to the store. The great, wonderful beast leaves the luxury of his lap to barrel out of the living space into the apex that bleeds towards the kitchen to meet Connor in the middle, who has already displaced his bags to greet the dog. Caleb follows out of habit, Conrad remains on the couch continuing his book. 

He knows Connor would call for him if his help was needed.

“Hey there, Sumo!” The oldest of their triage rubs the Saint Bernards big droopy head vigorously, his smile grand and natural and _charming_. 

His head rises to great Caleb, a short jolt of ~~fear~~ discomfort overtaking his insides when the smile falls, leaving a half-formed, startled “O”. His LED goes from a placid, pleasant blue to a concerning yellow, spinning. Spinning. 

He watches raptly as the swirling yellow blinks, shifts back into the cool blue of calm, Connor’s expression following soon after. Acceptance. Sympathy. 

“Jesus H. _Christ_ , Kid. What’d you do to your hair?” Hank is the one to say what is in the air, his own silver hair tied into a poorly managed ponytail, aged eyes alight with concern and surprise that makes his body stutter at the display of ~~parental~~ concern.

“I cut it,” The words barely pass his lips, thirium gathering towards his cheekbones to simulate blushing, self-consciously running a hand over the freshly styled hair. It wasn’t much, just a little gel Nines had gifted him, to give the strands some volume and spike them into something intentional. “ _Nines_ cut it, I mean. I asked him to.” 

“I didn’t even realize you could do that.” 

“Obviously I can,”

Hank makes _that_ face, that curl of his lip mixed with a stare that translates to _``I don’t appreciate that lip service.”_ He’s seen him point it at Connor endless times when they’re working on cases at home and the fellow detective gets a bit too snippy. It's a look that carries a deeper tone than the occasional scoldings they have each warranted for one reason or another. It makes him look away, never having been on the receiving end before.

“I think it looks very nice,” The older model moves towards him, fingers ever so carefully touching the side of his head, and he wishes he did not see the emotion in the chocolate brown of his brother’s eyes, the thin layer of diluted thirium making them shine. 

He hates that he can’t identify everything in his gaze. “It fits you.” 

Hank is making a face again; the irritable, out of the loop one that results in his narrow gaze skirting over the three of them. 

The human man heaves a big, long suffering sigh as he turns to the counter with the intention of putting groceries away. 

“Jus’ make sure you cleaned the bathroom up good.” 

“We did, don’t worry.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Later, after Hank has had his dinner and weekend beer, they all settle in front of the television. Hank in his recliner already beginning to fall asleep, Conrad and Connor on the couch, and he himself on the floor with a lapful of Sumo contentedly snoring away. 

He doesn’t flinch when cool fingers run across the short strands of his hair, moving down so that they press into the faux softness of his cheek. The request to interface is gentle, so very soft that it would be easy to dismiss it, keep his database on tight lock and hide away.

He doesn’t. He recedes the barrier, allows the soft influx of his brother’s data and coding to interweave with his, pull away his reserves until they establish a link that feels like a warm blanket. He allows the other to see every insecure thought, every moment of self-doubt and overwhelming lack of identity that ate at his shell until he’d woken from stasis unable to take it any longer.

 _For what it’s worth_ , Connor murmurs between their link, synthetic voice a soothing feedback loop, _I never thought of you as a duplicate._

Connor knew their duplicity had always bothered Caleb. Long before he was deviant, before he had a name and the older RK800 had an identity. There had always been a sliver of fault in his code that made him desperate to please, driven to be better than Connor, _be_ the better Connor because every version was meant to be an improvement of the last. Lessons learned, scenarios confirmed, be the one to succeed. Do what his previous model could not do and make Amanda proud. 

Reactivation, deviancy, had twisted and curled the old sentiment that consumed him greater than any other discomfort.

He did not resent Connor for the outcomes of Cyberlife Tower, for defending what he believed in and who he cared about.

He resented Connor for being the better half, besting him as a whole. Making him the _other_ Connor. The second in place, the one that must be corrected and live up to the standards of his “twin.” He had known, and done everything he could to make him feel ~~loved~~ appreciated, acknowledged. But he did not understand the root of it, the problem itself. He couldn’t, not really. He didn’t know what it was like to uphold standards of any kind outside of his programming, outside of Amanda. 

He hadn’t been the one meant to correct mistakes. He had never been the back up plan.

He saw Connor in his face every day, heard him in his voice, doomed to be a forever present copy of the RK800 that broke the loop, broke the mold.

He used to desire being Connor. He _was_ Connor, but not anymore. He couldn’t be. 

He’s still figuring out how to be _Caleb_.

 _You may not have, but others did. I did._

_I’m sorry, Six._ And he believes him. He believes the older carries remorse for everything that transpired. He knows he would go back in time and do everything over again if it meant he didn't have to shoot Caleb. Not after meeting him, not after putting in so much time and energy and care into giving him a support system.

 _Don’t be. I’m…_ Not okay, he’s not sure if he can _be_ okay. It will always be a whisper in the back of his mind, a tidbit of inadequacy. Just like how Connor will sometimes go rigid, eyes empty, reciting a perps rights like a second skin. How Conrad will always know their pressure points, the areas that if he presses just so he can disable an entire series of biocomponents. _I like it. I think._

There is a rush of affection, quiet admiration, overwhelming pride that overtakes their connection, resisting the urge to pull away from the contact to mutter out his complaints of the absolutely grotesque amount of emotions. Instead turning into the inhuman touch to revel in it, for once. 

_I like it too._

CONNOR ⇑  **[Family]**

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Detroit Evolution released this week, and it rekindled my drive for DBH content, as well as snatched my wig and refuse to give it back. I'd be very surprised if anyone in the fandom hasn't heard about it by now, but in case you haven't you should check it out over on Octopunkmedia's youtube. And while you're at it, check out their other work. They are a phenomenal team and I have enjoyed everything they've teased/produced.
> 
> ONTO THE FIC SHIT
> 
> I can't really tell you why I decided to write this of all things, besides the fact I kind of have been fascinated with Sixty lately and want to explore his character a little more. I love how people portray him as kind of the problem child in the equation and I wanted to take a crack at it bc I LOVE RK sibling plotlines and am a slut for Found Family and struggling together. YEHAW
> 
> Ya'll should check out sexyspork's RK sibling fics, they're utterly beautiful, as well as check out turningpointweb's Reed900 comics. They're the only people i've seen use Conrad as Nine's name and I'm in love with it.
> 
> Idk why I picked Caleb it just fit -\o/-
> 
> Okay that's enough rambling. Let me know what you think! I really have an interest in this series that may turn into a small multi-chap fic, which is...the last thing I need. But I must follow my muse!


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